


Summer Sunshine and Winter Moon

by sanguisuga



Series: Aberrant Fragments [4]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aging, And really it's just a tiny mention, But not Greg or Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kinda?, Light Angst, M/M, Retirement, Romance, Sherstrade, but I still thought it should be tagged, mention of major character's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is beginning to want a bit more from his dwindling days. And Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Sunshine and Winter Moon

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sherlock rarepair bingo challenge - 'Autumn'. A wee bit of fluffy Sherstrade!
> 
> (I'm imaging the age difference as something a bit more substantial here - seventeen years. They met when Sher was 28, Greg 45. In this story, their relationship has been established for almost two decades.)
> 
> Please do comment - the muse always loves hearing from you!
> 
> Not beta'd or brit-picked, just a little one-off.

So perhaps walking in the park wasn’t quite as dull as Sherlock had feared it might be all those years ago. He still recalled the look on his lover’s face when he had suggested it as part of the list of ‘pros’ that he had written out as a prelude to suggesting that they finally move in together. Greg had naturally known that the very idea of perambulating around the green like a couple of old biddies would send a shudder of revulsion through him, and he had been wearing his most impish of smiles as he read out that particular item.

Sherlock had not disappointed him, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he had scoffed disbelievingly. But then that lovely face had drooped slightly, and he had suddenly realised how much of himself that Greg had put into his planning process, and something in his chest had absolutely melted. In the end, he knew that he could never refuse his lover anything that he honestly desired, and if he truly wished to be subjected to his madness day after day, so be it.

So here they were years later, ambling along with Sherlock’s hand tucked into Greg’s arm, simply walking together with no words necessary as they looked upon the changing of the season, the trees glowing gold and crimson in the dwindling daylight. They settled down on their favourite bench, which was another thing that Sherlock had even refused to believe could possibly come to pass. It undoubtedly had, though, because here it was -  tucked up under one of the oldest trees in the park, promising to cradle his posterior in just the right way. This tree too was a favourite of theirs, offering shelter under its vast branches in the event that the weather turned inclement, and also affording quite a bit of privacy in case either of them ended up feeling somewhat frisky. Even now, well into their second decade together, they could happily devolve into some serious snogging and/or heavy petting at any moment, the risk of getting caught out proving to be too enticing to either of their libidos.

And then there was the memorable occasion when they had both slunk into the deepest shadows of this lovely natural monolith during the twilight hour, when his lover had deftly pulled him off under the cover of his Belstaff. Sherlock had fallen to his knees right then and there and had taken Greg into his mouth without any further thought to his surroundings, the blissful haze of his post-orgasmic mind occupied with one thing and one thing only - that of pleasuring his lover and greedily drinking down his tribute to him. That evening was still something that they would remind each other of in soft whispers in the darkness of their room, or when they were feeling a bit saucy and had decided to take each other up against the window with the curtains pulled open wide…

Yes, his favourite bench under his favourite tree in his favourite park, with the most important person in his world. None of these were things that Sherlock had felt that he would ever have, and yet here they were. He turned to watch as Greg tilted his head back to look up into the brightly coloured canopy above them, his eyes crinkling with pleasure.

“This always has been my favourite time of the year. But even so, I wish that I had met you in summer, not fall.”

Sherlock tilted his head and frowned deeply. “I know that my recollections of those days are rather fuzzy, but wasn’t it February?” He shivered and burrowed a little deeper into his coat as Greg patted his hand gently.

“I didn’t mean time of year, love, I meant time of life.” He chuckled quietly at the extremely sceptical slant of Sherlock’s eyebrow. “So I’m feeling a bit poetical today…” Greg sighed and looked up into the leaves again. “I figure that eighty is probably a pretty good run, yeah? Twenty years for each season. I was in the autumn of my life - forty-five. If only it had been a decade earlier…”

Sherlock scoffed even as he slid his hand down Greg’s arm, pulling it into his lap. “Then I would have been but eighteen, and you would have spent far too long berating yourself for robbing the cradle or some other falderal.”

“Your brother would have skinned me alive.” A brief bout of laughter was shoved from Sherlock’s nostrils, but then he stilled suddenly, a paroxysm of grief flitting over his features. Greg felt his shoulders drop as he realised, and he clutched his lover’s hand a little tighter. “Shit. I’m sorry, Sunshine. I just - it hasn’t quite sunk in yet, I think…”

“No, Greg, it’s fine. It’s all fine. He was nothing but an overbearing pompous old bastard anyway. Always sticking that enormous beak of his into everyone’s business, acting like he always knew best. Right old arsehole.”

“You miss him.”

Sherlock’s eyes went a little distant even as he shifted closer on the bench, the warmth and comfort of his lover’s voice sinking into his bones. “I do. God help me.” Greg hummed and leant into him, pressing his lips to his temple, breathing gently into his curls, still wild after nearly twenty years. Not quite as dark - no, now it was shot through with little streaks of pure white, and his partner claimed it lovelier than ever. “Thank you, Greg.” He felt his lover's body twitch in surprise as Sherlock pulled away with a little smile on his lips. “I know that I don’t say it often enough, considering all that you’ve been through with me. Thank you for being there for me. I - I love you.”

Greg reached up to run his fingertips along one fine, high cheekbone, his deep brown eyes crinkling as he looked upon his partner. “I know, Sunshine. You don’t have to say it. Words don’t mean anything more than that look in your eye when you see me first thing in the morning. Words can’t compare to the feel of your hands, your breath on me. What use are words when you’re moving underneath me, all sweat and heat and mindless desire? I know exactly how you feel about me, my love. I only say it so often because I can’t help it. I love you so much that it hurts me sometimes, and God, I just have to let it out.”

“Poetical indeed…” Sherlock dropped his gaze to their intertwined fingers, sighing softly.

“Must be feeling a bit introspective. I’m entering my winter, my love, and that _is_ a time for reflection, don’t you think?”

Sherlock scoffed loudly. “You’ve plenty of life left in you, Greg. More than enough for the both of us, if your rather enthusiastic display this morning is anything to go by…”

Greg grinned wickedly, leaning in to press his teeth against his lover’s neck, just to hear him suck in a quick breath. “That’s rather the point, Sunshine. There are places that I want to see and things that I’d like to do before my bloody body gives out on me, y’know? My behind is getting saggy from sitting at a damn desk all day long.”

“Well now, we can’t have that, can we?” Sherlock purred as he nuzzled into Greg’s hair, completely silver now, with no hint of darkness underlying it. God, he glowed like the moon - his treasure, the one case that he never wanted to solve because solving it would mean letting him go. Greg sighed with utter contentment as he shifted his head to his lover’s shoulder, and they simply held on to each other as Sherlock contemplated.  

He’d be lying if he tried to say that he wouldn’t miss the thrill of the chase, but he would also be lying if he tried to say that it was just as thrilling these days as it had been in the past. Although both he and Greg had finally managed to quit their nicotine habit, it had left him in particular with a rather short wind, as he’d always been the heavier smoker. So more of the nitwits were slipping away from him these days, and he had been forced to let the actual police presence hunt the suspects down and tuck them away. And none of the cases were all that exciting or new - it was nearly always the controlling husband who had done it, the jealous sister, or the scheming housekeeper. Sherlock had trained his mind to such an extent that it would take him all of three minutes to determine the perpetrator, and even though he would be pleased with himself for having solved it so quickly, it also meant an even swifter plummet into the ennui that threatened to engulf him.

Until Greg would say something, or do something so utterly beguiling that Sherlock would find himself staring in wonder, puzzling over and over how something so simple and so wonderful could possibly belong to him. The truth was that over the past couple of years, he’d been spending less time at various crime scenes and more time verbally and mentally tussling with his brother, just as they had when younger. Mycroft would propose some mental exercise and they would race each other to find the answer, and typically Sherlock would lose, although his big brother would perhaps try to deny his victory in his little brother’s favour. Although it felt like pandering, Sherlock would accept Mycroft’s concession with grace, loving his brother just a little bit more for his awkward attempts at showing his affection.

But then he had been struck down by that marvellous brain of his, a massive stroke in the dead of night. At least he had gone quickly, and most likely without feeling a thing. Small mercy - to die alone in an obscenely huge bed only to be found by your bloody housekeeper the next day. Sherlock shivered again and leant his cheek against the spiky top of his lover’s head, taking solace in his solid presence next to him. ‘Places to see and things to do’... Hm.

He never had adequately explored the catacombs in Paris, or had the opportunity to visit the Sedlec Ossuary in the Czech Republic… Sherlock felt his heart start to beat a little faster at the thought of wandering through the halls of the Mutter Museum in the States, or perhaps that Winchester Mystery House that he’d heard tell of. Suddenly so many new things, new possibilities, new puzzles were unfolding in his mind, and yes - yes, they could do these things. Could do them now, while Greg still felt hale enough and while his mind was still sharp enough.

His brother’s death had left them both financially fixed, even if neither of them never worked another day in their lives. While they had never officially married, Mycroft had always viewed Greg as part of the family, and had bequeathed him with a considerable sum all his own to ensure that he would be taken care of if necessary. He had also accounted for Mrs. Hudson’s failing health and had assigned for her a veritable army of devoted caretakers, so that she never had to leave her own flat. Of course she often did, toddling down the pavement on an attendant’s strong arm, blatantly flirting with him all along the way. Maybe… Maybe after she was gone, they could truly begin on their new adventures. Greg had become her surrogate son just as firmly as he had, and Sherlock knew that neither of them would really feel comfortable just leaving her behind.

Perhaps just a short journey first, then. Something to appease his silver-haired lover, somewhere no doubt tropical and sickeningly sunny. Oh, but Greg always had looked divine after the sun had its taste of his skin though - like a bronze statue. Sherlock felt a delicious shiver run up his spine as he pictured him on a deserted sandy beach, all in white linen with his shirt hanging open… Oh, oh yes… He shivered again as Greg snuggled in just a bit closer, running one strong, broad hand up his leg.

“Tenerife.” Greg shifted and turned a quizzical look on him. “Or perhaps Greece. Crete?” Sherlock carefully twined their fingers together on top of his thigh, looking off into the distance. “We’ll take a holiday. And, we’ll…talk. About us - about the future.” He took in a quiet breath and finally turned his head, looking into eyes that were so deep and dark that they threatened to swallow him whole. “We’ll talk about those places you want to see and things you want to do. And then we’ll make it happen.”

“But your work…”

“Is fading. I’ve made enough of an impression on the criminal classes here that none of them offer any sport any more. It’s all just human error these days. Dull.” Sherlock felt his own excitement growing as he saw it reflected in his lover’s face. “I want to see ruins and museums and cathedrals that are hundreds of years old. I still want to learn, Greg, and I want you to be there with me.”

“Oh, my sweet summer Sunshine… As if I could ever be anywhere else.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat unbearably as Greg cupped his face in both hands and brought him in for a tender kiss. Yes, this - this for so many autumns to come, whether under a canopy of crimson and gold, on the jeweled shores of a crystalline sea, crouching in the remains of a city lost to the ravages of time - all of it with his love, his heart, his winter moon.


End file.
